


The Least Original Sin

by Nimravidae



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Erotic Peach Eating, Established Relationship, First Time, Fucking Emotions of Course, Fucking Under the Apple Tree, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Peaches - Freeform, Rimming, Snowballing, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), garden sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 20:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19893859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: Aziraphale eats a peach, which sort of starts a whole thing.(AKA: Aziraphale and Crowley bone under an apple tree, pop a cherry, and think about apples.)





	The Least Original Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/gifts).



> I regret to inform you all that I am, in fact, back on my bullshit. 
> 
> Blessings to weatheredlaw for asking me up to three times a day how this is going, then also reading it and fixing all of my mistakes, and comforting me in times of Great Stress.

The thing about late summer was that it was, among other things, stone fruit season. Crowley personally hadn’t developed much of a taste for them. They were fine, as were a number of other sorts of fruits. But peaches and plums weren’t his favorites.

Cherries though, cherries he could get behind. And a good mango, he supposed. In general, though, he really wasn’t much of a fruit person. After the whole deal the first time, he tried his best to stay away. Leave it to one bad apple to ruin the whole thing.

He had, for the longest time, been under the assumption that he and Aziraphale were more or less in agreement about the whole thing. Fruits, given their rather cliched role in _their_ history, were something to be avoided. Regarded with suspicion and just the slightest bit of trepidation, always wondering how the little buggers were trying to tempt you. What secrets they were hiding.

Crowley instead found, while standing at the entrance to the garden stuck outside their shared cottage in the South Downs, that Aziraphale was quite the fan of peaches.

In order to best understand how Crowley got into that position, standing there in mud-stained denim, scuffed boots, and an aged, stretched-out t-shirt that he thought was wildly entertaining, but left Aziraphale incredibly confused, at around eight in the morning, watching an angel messily devour stone fruit sitting on a bench in the shade of an apple tree—we should first look back towards the time the world didn’t end.

Contrary to what most would presume, that first night after the world failed to end, Aziraphale and Crowley did incredibly little.

Crowley, fresh off the biggest miracle he’d ever performed, had been a bit too exhausted to do more than convince his own wine glass to refill autonomously. He’d decanted himself onto the uncomfortable sofa in his living room, having already stepped nervously over the puddled remains of Ligur, and savored his wine while Aziraphale puttered about.

Aziraphale, ever-helpful—and constantly reminding Crowley that his taste in decorating was drab and dreary, and that making a booby-trap out of holy water was _reckless_ , and that they needed to try to make heads or tails of the prophecy—bobbed around the flat.

Doing his best to not pay attention to the waves of existential dread that were starting to crest and threaten to crash down over him, Crowley kept drinking. They figured out the necessary mechanisms for exchanging corporeal forms, they thwarted Heaven and Hell, they drank.

The days following the apocalypse-that-didn’t (the Apocawasn’t? Apocanever? Armagedidn’t? Ragner-ah-well-we’ll-just-catch-the-next-one. Whatever you wished to call it, Crowley just called it Last Saturday and was done with it) were mostly spent in a sort of fugue state. Crowley tended to his plants, sulked around Aziraphale’s bookshop, sulked around his own flat—sulked everywhere really, taking special note of all the people he passed.

London seemed fuller than usual these days. Or maybe it was just a hyper-awareness of how close every one of these meandering little beings came to total annihilation. Every time he left his flat, or the bookshop more frequently, they were everywhere. Entirely unaware of what very nearly happened to them.

Incredible and frustrating in the same moment. Crowley and Aziraphale fell more into step, they’d grasped at each other the entire bus into London. They stayed linked at the hand the whole walk up to Crowley’s flat, and as of late they’d been doing much the same on any other walk they’d been on together.

They’d been sitting, eating, talking—all of those sorts of things together. To the point where, after a nearly three months after the world failed to end, Crowley looked up from his place on the wingback near the fire and sought out the tartan-and-beige figure perched at his desk (glasses on his nose as he meticulously filed his taxes).

He hadn’t gone more than a few hours without seeing Aziraphale recently, if he was going to be honest with himself. And, if he was going to continue the chain of honesty, the idea of _going_ more than a few hours without him made Crowley’s stomach do uncomfortable things.

“What are you staring at?” Aziraphale asked, after a few short moments, turning the page in his book. Crowley blinked, probably for the first time in far too long.

“Nothing, angel,” he replied, turning his attention back down to the glass of wine in his hands. He’d been drinking, thinking, for the past few hours.

A soft _twump_ as the book shut. “You’ve been staring off and on at me like that for days now. There’s nothing on my face, I’ve checked.”

“‘S nothing.” He sniffed, glancing down at the fire. He nudged his feet closer, feeling the chill a bit more in his icy limbs. Cold blood, it had its benefits. Keeping warm with the coming winter was not one off them. “Just realized we’ve been together quite a bit is all.”

There was a few moments where Aziraphale thought about it. “We have. Six thousand years. Suppose it is quite a while, isn’t it?”

Crowley blinked. “I meant—” But he didn’t, did he? Thinking more about it, looking down at his hands, picking at a loose flake of nail polish, he really didn’t mean anything different, did he? “Well we weren’t together the whole time,” he pointed out, unnecessarily.

Aziraphale frowned. “I guess not. Though I wouldn’t consider it,” he waved a hand through the air, somewhere between dismissive and not. “Wasted or anything of the sort. We were figuring out how we fit.”

“Wasted? I mean why would it be wasted?” Crowley asked, brow knitting together. He moved to adjust his sunglasses, forgetting for a moment he wasn’t wearing them.

Aziraphale wiggled, not his usual pleased wiggle, this one was much more uncomfortable. His face turned back down towards the book in his lap, fingers working at the fraying edges of the cover. They knit back together miraculously under his touch. “Because we were together but not _together_. I’d thought we—forgive me for assuming, dear boy I had thought, assumed, really, that after—at the Ritz and,” a cough, clearing his throat. “I’d just thought we were together now.”

“We are,” he replied, a touch confused. Admittedly, it took Crowley two weeks to understand Aziraphale’s meaning. It took another four to kiss him.

From there, things tumbled slowly. It took a year for them to decide to leave London, another six months to decide on a place, another six months after that to work out a design.

It was two years after the world didn’t end, by the time they found their little cottage. It wasn’t so much as built as it was always there. Ask anyone in town about the cottage up the road and they’d stop, thinking about it, and say _you know what? That old thing has been there forever. Has someone finally went and bought it?_

Ask them who lived there and they’ll swear someone must’ve. They just can’t remember. They’ll ask their parents, who won’t know either. If their parents were given the opportunity to ask their parents, well those ones can’t remember either. _Always empty,_ they’d say, _but always there._

Everyone about the little town was pleasantly surprised when the two men arrived without so much as a box in tow. _Must’ve paid someone to move their things,_ they’d thought, _late at night._

No one ever saw a single box, but within a day the house was filled with all their belongings and a heavy sense of love. There was a cottage and a garden and two men and suddenly that was all anyone ever remembered as having been there.

Worth the two years, if you asked Crowley. Which, of course, no one did.

They’d done a lot of things in two years. Two years worth of dinners, of lunches, of late nights drinking and talking. Of late nights not talking and, if you were Aziraphale, reading, or, if you were Crowley, not-reading, but watching Aziraphale read and occasionally being read _to_. Two years of planning gardenscapes, two years of minor rows over placement of the breakfast nook in their imagined home.

Two years of kisses, two years of Crowley taking short naps with his head in Aziraphale’s lap. Two years of plants, two years of Aziraphale’s fingers combing through his hair, two years of nails scratching at his scalp while Crowley made soft, unintelligible noises into the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat.

Two years held a lot of happenings, but Crowley realized in the exact moment that he stood in the garden outside their cottage in the South Downs, watching Aziraphale dig his teeth into the supple, sweet flesh of a late-summer peach, that even after six thousand years they really were still capable of surprising one another.

Well that, and there was one thing they still hadn’t done.

And Crowley recalls exactly what it was they hadn’t done yet, watching Aziraphale’s tongue lave over the place he bit before sucking the fruit with a hollowed-cheek enthusiasm.

It isn’t that Crowley doesn’t like the idea of sex—especially sex with Aziraphale—it’s more to the point that he never saw the point of it with anyone _but_ Aziraphale. The idea of connection, of intimacy, of sharing some part of himself with someone else, letting someone make him vulnerable, pick him apart at the seams until he came entirely undone—the exposure of it makes his sweat freeze in the swealter of the summer heat.

Watching Aziraphale devour a piece of fruit with the same sort of rapt attention he gives poetry and food and Crowley, reminds him that Aziraphale never had such qualms. He opened his arms, his bed, his legs, for people before. Crowley just waved off the assumption that he had too.

He ignores the needling under the fire in his stomach and watches as Aziraphale sits there, on a bench suspiciously like the ones in St James Park, a book closed up by his side and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, opaque droplets of juice running down the pale inside of his wrist, following a few wayward freckles down to where it disappears against his skin.

Crowley tracks it with his eyes, mouth going dry—he didn’t even know mouths could _do_ that—as he watches Aziraphale bring the fruit back to his lips. They brush against it, for a moment, as if debating another bite while birds bicker over places to land on Crowley’s plants outside.

Then teeth again, another swell of the sticky-sweet juice rolling down from his lips. Down his chin. It is far, far, too early for Crowley to be watching the way it beads down his throat, down to the—oh unmerciful fucking Satan—down to the unbuttoned collar of his shirt where it catches on the tastefully greying hair of his chest.

Dear _someone_ he feels like a voyeur, stealing glimpses of something no one was meant to see. Like he’s lurking beneath the ferns and intruding on a personal moment. A private, intimate, encounter between him and a peach. Crowley should look away, but he absolutely cannot.

Aziraphale takes another bite.

He is going to discorperate right there, in his boots, as the next bite wrenches a moan, a _proper,_ moan, from Aziraphale’s throat. Something low and raw and very near animalistic as his lips close around a piece of the God-damned fruit.

It’s messy, it’s filthy, and Crowley’s brain is firing on all cylinders, gears grinding and smoking and sparking, trying desperately to catch up with any train of thought that doesn’t involve the word _lick._

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s hand flies to his mouth, napkin materializing to politely dab at the juice still clinging to his lips. Crowley’s heart wrenches at the waste. “I didn’t spot you there, Crowley. Have a good sleep, did you?” He asks.

“Yeah,” he croaks, taking a half-numbed step forward to where Aziraphale is still holding the peach between his knees. Half-eaten, it hangs there, taunting Crowley. “Don’t, eh,” he gestures. “Stop on my account.”

Aziraphale frowns again. “You alright, dear? You look a bit shaken if you don’t mind me saying.”

Crowley swallows, shaking his head and crossing the last short distance between them, circling once around the bench before coming to sit beside him, still watching Aziraphale with careful, unshaded, unblinking eyes. “M’fine, angel. Really.” Aziraphale’s fingers glint in the early morning sunlight, looking sweet and slick and sticky.

He bets they taste incredible, he could just suck one into his mouth—the sweetness of the fruit juice and the saltiness of his skin, like the taste of his throat and jaw and all the places Crowley had carefully nipped before.

The thought consumes him like a crashing wave for just a moment, stunning him and dragging him under the surface and lurching him deep into the dark depths of filthy fantasies that involved sucking Aziraphale’s fingers. And licking the peach juice off his neck, and off his wrist, and lathing his body top to bottom with his tongue. Fuck apples, peaches are the fruit of sin, Crowley’s convinced.

Crowley tries not to make his plight obvious as Aziraphale stares at him for another moment, raising the fruit towards him. “Would you like some?” He asks, voice edging a bit on the lip of confusion.

Eyes flicker down to the peach, to Aziraphale’s fingers. He obviously means for Crowley to take it, to try it. To taste it. He swallows, dry, and reaches his own bony fingers towards Aziraphale’s—but on some strange draw that he doesn’t recognize, he doesn’t go for the fruit.

Instead, with his eyes carefully fixated on Aziraphale’s expression, he curls them around his wrist. “Crowley…” It’s tentative, every blink a bit more confused. But he doesn’t say anything else as Crowley drags his whole hand, bringing the fruit to his lips.

Aziraphale gasps, a noise soft and gentle. Crowley doesn’t know what drives him to keep staring at him, to watch him as he digs his teeth into the soft flesh of the peach.

Normally, he wouldn’t let himself make a mess. Eating could be such a _mess._ No crumbs would dare land on him, nothing sauce would stain his jacket. No juice would follow the sharp angles of his jaw, dripping to the hollow of his throat.

He lets it today. He lets it stick to his lips, drip to where his fingers hold Aziraphale’s hand steady. Blue eyes darken with something properly unholy and something righteous flutters in Crowley’s chest. Maybe this is why people really go nuts over stone fruit.

If every peach was like this, he’d get the obsession. If every peach was like this, Crowley would go full-tilt into it, cobblers, pies, cover them in sweet cream.

He watches Aziraphale for a moment before he swallows—every moment as deliberate and calculated as the moment he watched Eve’s first steps into knowledge. He lets his tongue dart down to chase every drop, humming as he lets go of Aziraphale and sits back. “Good,” he says, throat feeling strangely raw.

They haven’t done this yet. Aziraphale isn’t breathing, but neither is Crowley. “I—er,” Aziraphale swallows and stares at the fruit as if had suddenly sprouted a mouth and began whispering prophecies about distant planets. “Well.”

“Too much?” Ice forms in the pit of Crowley’s being and all he can hear is the distant tin of a terrible stripclub in Soho and _you go too fast._

“It…” _You go too fast for me._ Crowley leans back, but Aziraphale follows, leaning over to kiss him. “Are you certain about this?” He breathes, less of a question and more of a statement. He tastes like peaches—like fruit—and Crowley tries not to think about it and instead kiss him again.

And again. And again. Crowley chases the taste of the peach, the taste of Aziraphale’s tongue, until his lips slide slick and warm to the sticky-sweet column of his throat. Beside him, Aziraphale makes noises that Crowley didn’t believe anyone could actually make, sweet gasps and groans and high-pitched keens of pleasure as his teeth nip at the sensitive skin where a pulse-point would be if either of them could stay focused on keeping their hearts racing.

He moves, shifting over so this thighs bracket Aziraphale’s lap, the two of them pressing together, bodies sliding against one another as Crowley refuses to tear himself from the angel in front of him.

Both had gone ahead and made the effort a long while ago, the existence of bathhouses sort of necessitated it. But that doesn’t stop Crowley’s surprise when he presses closer, bodies sliding together, and feels something stiff pressing against his hip.

Funny, he could imagine it in theory—and in reality (bathhouses left little for the imagination) as something Aziraphale had, as something he was capable of. He knew Aziraphale had known humans in the _biblical_ sense, knew he luxuriated in all the pleasures mankind had to offer. It didn’t bother Crowley in the bit to know he was well-versed in the art of pleasure—what wraps around him for a moment and squeezes is the realization that this is him.

This is for him.

He shoves his face into Aziraphale’s throat, chasing and tasting the salt of his skin mixed with the lingering ghost of the peach.

Aziraphale’s body presses tighter to his, the arousal and interest grinding with slow, precise, moments. A shiver slithers up his spine and his hands slide around Aziraphale’s body until he’s gripping at his angle, pressing harder.

“Wait. Crowley—” It takes him a half-second to tear away, to stop pressing his hips down against Aziraphale’s, wrenching those noises from him.

He starts breathing again, if only because he needs to do something. “What’s wrong?” He asks, remembering to blink after only a moment.

“I—” a swallow. “Crowley I know we haven’t—”

“No,” he nips at the skin there, willing it to bruise for him. If his heart were capable of skipping a beat, it would. “We haven’t.” He hasn’t, he _really_ hasn’t. But that’s not an issue for now. Because he’s about to and that’s all that Crowley needs to know about that.

He’s seen videos. Seen it live in Rome and Greece and a fascinating little place in the early 1980’s. He knew how the whole event went. He drags his lips up to Aziraphale’s to kiss him again, gentle and sweet.

“We could?” Aziraphale offers, voice catching around a groan. “Head up to bed?”

He glances between them, then at the cottage, then down again. “Do we have to? We haven’t got neighbors to offend.”

Aziraphale’s palms sweep up Crowley’s thighs, leaving tingling holy-sparks in their wake. “Don’t you want something, well,” Aziraphale winces in realization of what he is inevitably going to suggest. “Special?”

“Special.” Crowley echoes, face twisting up in a bit of interest. “What exactly do you mean by special?”

“Romantic?” The thumbs resting on the inseam of his trousers rub soft circles, which only further stokes the quiet-burning fire in his belly. “Have you imagined this at all?”

 _Every night for six thousand years,_ is what he wants to say. What he does say is: “I have.”

“Well?” Aziraphale gives him an expectant look and Crowley realizes with mortifying clarity he’s meant to _tell him._

He shudders at the thought of being so exposed. But Aziraphale’s gaze doesn’t waver. Steadfast and holy. “Well what?” He asks, because playing stupid has always done him well in the past.

The hands creep upwards, until they’re wrapping around his hips. “What did you imagine?” It’s soft, placating, exactly the sort of way that Aziraphale is. The way he needles information out of Crowley without pressing too hard—knowing that a bit too much and he’ll end up with a snake in the rafters for a week again.

“Which time?” The words fall from his lips before he could consider them. He winces, a touch, at how wrecked and desperate he sounds—but it only flashes something dark in Aziraphale’s eyes.

The hands on his back flex and pull him closer. “The first time,” Aziraphale prompts, one hand wrenching free to move up Crowley’s narrow chest, to the stretched-out collar of his shirt. He gives a little tug exposing more of the pale flesh beneath.

Crowley’s sluggish mind works up the effort to come up with something, _anything,_ as warm, still-sticky lips press against the skin of his sternum. He short-wires and reboots a few times in the brief moments that Aziraphale spends kissing up to the hollow of his throat.

“I’d thought,” it’s raw, wrecked. His throat is dry, his mouth is dry, all of him is burning and freezing at once under the soft kisses. “I’d thought about you having me—in the garden.”

Aziraphale freezes, his lips brushing against Crowley’s neck. “The garden?”

“The garden.” The. Definite article. “Under the tree.” The tree. Definite article.

“You’d imagined us making love under _the tree?”_ Crowley expected him to be concerned, maybe a bit confused, put off by the notion of fucking under the tree of knowledge. He was never sure why, but whenever he wrapped himself in the invisible cloak of his wings late at night, recalled the first time he ever smelled the first wet-sand scent of a rainstorm over nothingness, he drifted back there.

“Soft grass in the garden. By that spot where Adam named the peacock—which I still swear was _not_ my doing, regardless of what you think,” he tries to explain. “And it was where we met. Seemed romantic. Full-circle, narrative wise.” Something about starting and ending in a garden. Struck him as appropriate. “Me on my back, you—having me...in all your grand Holy Power.”

Aziraphale blinks at him, proper shocked blinks. “I... _well —_ I wouldn’t say I hadn’t...imagined...the same,” Aziraphale coughs, a sort of dry, forced, sound. “Situation.”

Crowley cranes his neck over his shoulder, pretending not to be so unsurprised. “We’ve got a garden here.”

“We do.”

“And we’re here.”

“We are.”

There isn’t much other math that needs to be done for the two of them. With a snap, Crowley makes sure the grass is soft. Silky to the touch and not anything that might itch at his bare skin. Aziraphale mirrors the gesture, but his clearing away debris and making sure nothing—not a neighbor nor bird nor insect disturbs them.

Crowley clambers back off of Aziraphale’s lap, down beneath the tree. Aziraphale wastes no time, crawling over him and pushing him down onto his back. Lips at Crowley’s, at his jaw, his throat, the slip of his collar through the stretched neck of his shirt.

It burns, each press of lips against skin branding something Crowley doesn’t understand, something his brain tries to comprehend but falls just short as fingers tease the hem of his shirt, pushing it up over his stomach. The muscles there tense, clenching as a fever-hot palm sweeps up his chest, pushing the shirt up until he’s almost entirely exposed.

He can just blink it off, snap his fingers and be naked—which is exactly what he does. One snap and it’s nothing but him, the grass, and Aziraphale.

“Well,” Aziraphale says, blinking back in shock. “I was—that’s fine too, I suppose.”

A sudden nerve, newly exposed and aching with confusion, twitches somewhere deep inside Crowley. He looks down at his body, his vessel. He’d always thought it was fine but what— what if Aziraphale didn’t? Was there something wrong with it? Too skinny? Too leggy? Was he not a fan of the cock that curved, flushed and hard against his stomach? “What?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale responds in that tone that Crowley’s long learned means something is wrong. Aziraphale shifts so he’s kneeling beside him a bit closer, one hand petting down the bare length of his ribcage. It would tickle if he were capable of being ticklish.

Crowley stretches out, trying to swallow the discomfort of exposure and reaches up to Aziraphale, one hand cupping his cheek, the other falling to where his hand is busy tracing the lines of his ribs. “If you don’t want to—”

“I do!” Aziraphale says, quick, sharp. “I just wanted to undress you myself. To show you—” He cuts himself off with a click as his jaw snaps shut. Aziraphale looks stricken, for just a moment, before shaking his head. “Right, no, nevermind. This is—how do you want me?”

This is more familiar, the sort of transaction Crowley’s witnessed in videos and in the sort of bathhouses Aziraphale and he never visited together. Much more within his frame of reference. He sits up, propped on his elbows. “However you want? Really, angel, just put me at your mercy.”

Above him, palm sweeping down to Crowley’s thigh and back up, Aziraphale contemplates for a short while. He turns and kisses the inside of Crowley’s wrist.“You want me to take you how I see fit?”

“I do.” _I trust you,_ he means, but he doesn’t say.

“Well then.” Aziraphale moves, dislodging Crowley’s hand—which just falls back to the grass—and settles between Crowley’s knees, carefully urging his legs apart. They yield perfectly to him, the holy-fire touch searing flesh that Crowley never knew could be so sensitive. He settles in there, like he was meant to be, hands falling back to Crowley’s chest with a comfortable ease. “Relax and let me have you.”

Crowley really tries his best to relax, like Aziraphale suggests, but it’s nigh impossible to do that with those absurdly soft hands running up and down the length of his torso. He hisses, as fingers find the stiff peak of a nipple and give a little tug.

“Good?” Aziraphale breaths, nails catching the skin around it.

“Ngk,” Crowley replies, because his throat and tongue refuse to cooperate and form coherent words. Aziraphale repeats the gesture, forcing Crowley’s back to arch off the soft grass.

The grin above him, haloed by the golden glow of the mid-afternoon sun, is properly vicious. “Seems to be a yes.”

Yes, _yes,_ he tries to say—but out comes another nonsense noise. Aziraphale speaks enough for the two of them, though, moving his hand down to stroke the fluttering muscles of Crowley’s waist. “I’ll go slow, dear,” he says, voice just low enough to be soothing but not enough to be a whisper. “Don’t want you getting overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed, he’s a demon for Ch—for—he can’t _get_ overwhelmed. Not even a little bit. “We’ve been going slow for six thousand and one years, angel,” he reminds him, voice cutting a bit of an impatient edge. “Can we at least speed up to the point where _you_ take your clothes off?”

Aziraphale glances down at himself, then over to Crowley, as if just realizing he was nude. “Right, I suppose,” he says.

“You suppose.”

“I do.” Aziraphale’s fingers go to his buttons first, carefully undoing them one by one. This is the point where Crowley’s mouth goes dry. He’s seen Aziraphale in hundreds of states of undress over the years—even in the Roman bathhouse. And Crowley really _had_ gotten an eyeful there.

But that doesn’t compare to watching the line of pale flesh peek from behind the blue shirt. He sits up to get a closer look, watching more and more of Aziraphale become exposed to him. He presses his lips to Aziraphale’s jaw, strokes through his hair and down the length of his neck.

Thank _whatever_ he doesn’t need to breathe because it would be impossible to even try now. Not as Aziraphale is shrugging out of his shirt, watching Crowley with careful eyes.

He folds it neatly, then in a blink, it’s gone. “The bedroom,” Aziraphale says, as if Crowley needs an explanation. His hands go to the waist of his trousers, but Crowley beats him to it. He doesn’t know _how,_ but he does, fingers curling just under the edge of the fabric, feeling the warmth of the skin beneath it.

Crowley is careful, deliberate, with the fly. He slides his hand down the slackened front, eyes drifting shut as he feels the hard line of Aziraphale’s cock. He bares his teeth against Aziraphale’s throat, wrenching out a choked-off moan as bony fingers wrap around him.

 _“Fuck,”_ Aziraphale breathes, the word alone sparking a boiling need in Crowley’s stomach. He pumps him a few times, familiarizing himself with the heat, the weight, the feeling of Aziraphale in his hand.

It feels like another six thousand years before Aziraphale is nude, before Crowley is back against the grass with Aziraphale above him, caged by his thighs, as he kisses him with a relentless, effortless passion.

It’s lips and tongues and hands touching every bit of him, sweeping until they find the sharp cut of his hips—then Azirapahle grabs, properly. A noise far too close to a keen wriggles its way out from Crowley’s throat.

“Lie back,” Aziraphale breathes, voice hoarse and heavy. “Allow me, dear.”

Slick, kiss-hot lips find his throat again and suck perfect, searing, bruises along his collar. Ones that Crowley knows he’ll will to last longer than they should. Ones he’ll press his fingers into later to relish the sweet throb of pleasure that rolls through his body in sharp, consuming waves.

His nails tear at the grass as Aziraphale marks down his chest, tongue flicking at one nipple before following the movement with a cold stream of air. Crowley all but yelps, entire body jerking with the sensation.

Fuck, if this was what sex was like he shouldn’t ever have waited (though what was he thinking? Sex with anyone _but_ Aziraphale would’ve been horrid. No one knew him like this. No one else could play his body like an angelic harp, could wring pleasure from him like a rag)

Aziraphale _bites_ right over his nipple and Crowley’s entire body arcs like a bowstring, taut with an ice-fire burst of pleasure bolting through him. “Shit,” he hisses, tongue taking far too long to step over the _s’s._ “That’s—fuck, that’s real good, angel.”

One of his hands flies, unbidden, to Aziraphale’s hair—gripping the white-blonde locks in search of something, anything, to hold onto. Desperation rolls through him again and again as Aziraphale moves on from there. Down, down, down until he’s—oh nothing about _that_ is angelic at all.

The way Aziraphale’s lips brush the rise of his hip bone is purely sinful. It borders on reverency. Idolatry. Aziraphale’s hand migrates, leaving burning touches all down until it fits under the back of his knee, gently guiding Crowley’s leg up and out. “Let me know if this is too much of a stretch,” he says, before burying a kiss right at the joint of thigh and hip.

All Crowley can do is swear. So he does. Aziraphale drapes one of Crowley’s thighs over his shoulder, the other pushed up and away. It leaves him open, exposed, shivering as Aziraphale presses his lips to the space between his balls and his hole.

Is he going to—oh— _oh._ The lips move just a touch further downward and there is Aziraphale’s mouth and tongue and oh—fuck. It’s wet and scorching, the tease of the pointed tip of his tongue circling his hole, the hot breath panting against him before Aziraphale returns with another slide, another kiss, another press. He laps at him, flat passes of his tongue interspersed with sucking kisses, eating Crowley like he’s that fucking peach.

All filled with moans and grunts of pleasure, as if Crowley is nothing but a meal laid out before him, something for Aziraphale to consume, to have, to _savor._

He can’t even look, he can’t look because if he does he is going to lose his fucking mind. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on nothing but the slickness, but the wet sounds from between his thighs, the _sensation,_ of being devoured.

Crowley’s hand flexes in Aziraphale’s hair, twitching between pulling him away and pushing him down harder. His cock aches, leaking onto his stomach as pleasure creeps up on him, a burning coil low in his belly and buzzing behind his knees and between his thighs.

A slick, deft, _smart,_ finger joins the tongue inside him. Then a second replaces the tongue as fire-hot lips track kisses back up to his stomach, slide slick over his cock.

The fingers twist and spread and curl and Crowley’s vision goes white. He cries Aziraphale’s name towards the roots of the apple tree, every muscle tensing and relaxing and tensing and relaxing as the electric waves of his orgasm roll through him again and again and again, until he’s made a proper mess of himself.

His heart is pounding, properly pounding. His eyes open slowly, unfocused and blurry, as he looks down at Aziraphale and oh— “Ngk,” he says, for the second time that morning, because Aziraphale is staring back up at him, those beautiful blue eyes blinking with arousal and want, and a streak of Crowley’s come clinging to his cheekbone.

“Fuck, angel, I’m— _fuck.”_ He can’t even finish the apology before Aziraphale’s face ducks down to the mess Crowley made on his stomach and drags his tongue through it. “Fuck.” He laps at it again, and again, those dark eyes watching him with deliberate intent as Aziraphale presses an open-mouthed, sucking kiss to Crowley’s stomach, swallowing down every ounce of his seed.

Fuck. Just fuck.

Crowley drapes an arm over his eyes, breathless as his cock twitches with the briefest memory of watching that unfold. Refractory periods are mortal issues. Aziraphale’s fingers twitch inside him.

He peeks an eye just in time to watch Aziraphale’s unoccupied fingers scoop the come from his cheek bringing them forward. “You really do taste divine, dear,” Aziraphale tells him, fingers out as if offering.

In a numb sort of shock, Crowley’s lips part, letting Aziraphale feed him his own come. His lips seal around the filthy fingers, serpentine tongue wrapping around them before he sucks them clean. Tastes—well, tastes both nothing and everything like Crowley would expect. He doesn’t stop suckling and lapping at his fingers, chasing the taste of salt and skin instead.

At least he does until Aziraphale pulls away, other set of fingers still working inside him. “You think you’re ready, dear?”

He almost asks _for what_ before he remembers. Hands flexing against the ground, he pushes out a breath and nods, feeling absurdly, intensely, nervous. “‘Course, angel.”

And with that, the fingers are gone and Aziraphale climbs back up Crowley’s body, lips at his, legs folded up over Aziraphale’s shoulders. A breath, and Aziraphale slides against him, thick cockhead nudging at him with a gentle insistancy.

Crowley’s arms twist around his neck, pulling him down as Aziraphale gives a bit of a push, breaching Crowley’s body with the same careful deliberation as he does everything else. The same savoring slowness he takes his meals with, the same all-consuming care that he handles his books with.

He pushes into Crowley with all the steadfast love of an angel, bottoming out and breathing sweet, heavenly breath against his lips.

And Crowley can’t fucking move. He can’t even fucking breathe because Aziraphale is inside him and Aziraphale is inside him and Aziraphale is inside him. It plays on a loop as every nerve in his body switches on at once, humming like a live-wire as all he can feel from the inside out is the burn of his body stretching and accommodating, and the hardness inside him and every single insistent point of contact.

Fingers, half-numb and awe-struck, de-tangle from Aziraphale’s hand and bump down to find where they’re joined, tracing where two become one with absolute reverence.

Fuck, just fuck.

“Alright, dear?” Aziraphale breathes, voice strained and rough. “May I—”

“If you don’t, I will burn this whole place to ash,” Crowley hisses, teeth gritting and toes curling as Aziraphale takes his cue to start moving. His hands fall to Crowley’s hips, grip bruising and sweet and perfect as he withdraws to the tip, then pushes back in again and again and again until Crowley is seeing every last star he hung in the sky at once.

It’s raw. If waves of pleasure hit him once, they hit him a hundred times over and it’s just Aziraphale. All he can think, all he can feel, all he can hear is Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. Nothing but his body, his hands, his cock, his lips, all of it sliding and sweet and perfect, all of it setting each inch of his body alight with sensation.

He’s never felt so alive, so whole, so perfect.

He’s stroked off in time with the thrusts, his second orgasm rolling over him with just a half-dozen tugs.

Aziraphale whispers his name when he comes, deep in Crowley’s body, teeth catching at the juncture of his throat and neck. Crowley conjures all his focus, all his capacity for thought and commits to memory the feeling of being filled, the hot rush of Aziraphale inside him. He lets it imprint itself on his mind, lets it filter through everything else. Fuck every other memory he’s ever made—this is the one he wants to keep.

They stay like that for a long while, Crowley guiding Aziraphale’s face up to his. The kiss they share is half-exhausted, half-needy and entirely filled with some electric charge. Every shift, every flutter, reminds Crowley that Aziraphale is still inside him, that he’s still filled with him.

At least for a little while longer. Eventually, Aziraphale pulls back, kissing away Crowley’s involuntary whimper at the sudden loss of him. “Hush,” he says, with a soft, deceptively chaste, kiss to the corner of his lips. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Another kiss to his clavicle, his chest, his stomach, but this time past the come staining his stomach and back down between his legs. Crowley groans, eyes rolling uselessly up towards the apples hanging above him as overstimulated pinpricks of pleasure race relentlessly down his entire nervous system.

Again and again and again as Aziraphale laps and licks and buries his tongue deep into Crowley’s stretched hole. He pulls back, after a while. “Would you like a taste, dear?” He asks.

Crowley blinks at him, drinking in the flushed cheeks and red-slick lips and hair mused beyond hope. “Please,” he rasps.

And Aziraphale is back down, face between his legs for another long, long, moment of sucking kisses and licks before he’s crawling back up Crowley again, kissing his own come back into Crowley’s mouth.

Divine. He tastes divine.

For a moment, Crowley thinks about Eve. He thinks about the apple, about her teeth digging into the fruit, the moment the first sin exploded over her tongue. He thinks about Adam, about truth and knowledge and evil and right.

He thinks about the two of them, he thinks about Adam taking the fruit from her lips with his own. Her kissing the knowledge into him, him kissing the fruit from her lips. He wonders, briefly, what knowledge was shared then. Was it the knowledge of them? What they would become when Adam first tasted the tang of the apple off Eve’s sweet sinful lips?

He thinks about peaches. About stone fruits.

About Aziraphale as their tongues slide against one another's, tasting familiar and unfamiliar at once. They kiss like that for much longer than Crowley thought possible, for much longer than most humans would lie kissing in the afterglow.

And once they’re done kissing, Crowley lies there for a few moments, watching the blurry apples shiver in an unfelt breeze above him. He blinks and swears for a moment they were peaches.

Best not think on that too much, he tells himself. He worked hard on those apples, no sense imagining them into something else. He rolls onto his side after a moment, wrapping his limbs around Aziraphale carefully. He flicks his fingers and a cigarette, freshly rolled, materializes between them because that’s what he’s seen humans do and, if anything, he’d actually quite like a smoke right now. He takes a drag before Aziraphale plucks it out.

A sound above him, a heavy exhale, and it’s back again. “Fuck,” Crowley says, after a moment, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s chest and stretching out a leg. “‘S real good, angel.”

Aziraphale hums, a heavy hand settling on the small of Crowley’s back. “Thank you, dear.” Crowley doesn’t bring the cigarette back to his lips again, but Aziraphale takes it anyway. “Better than the rest?”

Crowley could really, _really,_ go for a proper sleep right now. The sort of two-decade, drool puddles onto your pillows sort of sleep. He closes his eyes, nails scratching idly at Aziraphale’s side as he listens to the heartbeat he lets play under his skin. “What rest?” He asks.

“The other humans,” Aziraphale says, fingertips walking up Crowley’s spine to settle on the back of his neck, thumb working over the fine hairs there. “I’d hate to disappoint.”

Crowley sucks in a deep, content, breath. “I honestly have no idea what humans you’re talking about.”

It only strikes Crowley that he’s said something wrong when Aziraphale freezes. His fingers stop massaging his neck, his heart stops consciously beating for Crowley. “No other humans?”

“Mmm,” Crowley replies, pushing out another heavy, smoke-tinged, breath.

“Crowley sit up.”

Brow furrowing, Crowley looks up at Aziraphale. His face is pinched, expression clouded over with something that Crowley hasn’t seen in a long while. He sits up, wincing at the sharp pain in his rear. He rubs low on his back as he moves and vanishes the cigarette, stomach roiling uncomfortably with something as Aziraphale moves into the same position.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, hands folded over his lap, fingers twitching around his pinky-ring. “Had you not laid with anyone before?” he asks, suddenly.

Crowley raises a brow, glancing behind himself, then around, as if there would be an answer spelled out in the torn-out chunks of grass and sod. “Never told you I had,” he argues.

“You never said you hadn’t!” Aziraphale snaps and Crowley leans back. Aziraphale pushes himself into a standing position, fully-dressed by the time he’s on two feet. “You mean to tell me that this,” he gestures to the tree as if it were somehow a guilty party as well, “was the first time you’ve ever made love?”

He blinks at Aziraphale, looking down at himself, then back up again. Something uncertain and ugly claws its way up his throat. When he stands, he’s dressed as well, in his usual wear as opposed to gardening clothes, right up to the sunglasses. “I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s just sex, angel.”

“It’s not _just sex.”_ Oh, well now he’s made him proper furious, hasn’t he? Crowley doesn’t wince, but he wants to, as Aziraphale drags his hands down his face—both miraculously clean. “Why didn’t you—why couldn’t you— _Crowley._ We could have done something _special.”_

He tries not to let that hurt, tries not to let it wedge between his ribs and settle where it burns. He tries. He really does. “This wasn’t special?”

“It was—it wasn’t what you should have for your first time! We should’ve at least been in a bed!” The pitch of his voice climbs and Crowley shrinks back against his better instinct.

It was his garden, under his _apple tree._ “You asked me what I wanted,” he reminds Aziraphale. “I said I wanted this, I wasn’t lying, Aziraphale.”

He throws his hands out, gesturing around them. “And how do I know that? Clearly you’ve not been honest about this from the start.”

“I’ve been honest,” he snaps back. “Just because I don’t need rose petals and a bearskin rug doesn’t—”

“A bed,” Aziraphale hisses back, straightening his bowtie. “A bed at the very least. And not that filth.” Crowley’s heart sinks down to the soles of his boots. He sniffs, glancing up at the apple tree littered with peaches. Great.

Good luck undoing that one. Aziraphale steps forward, all the fight drained out of him in a moment, and Crowley wills himself not to step back. “We should have been tender.”

“We were.” Another sniff and Crowley’s arms cross over his chest, feeling strangely exposed by the burn of the sunlight. “It was plenty tender _._ Embarrassingly so, actually. Hope your miracle kept my plants from seeing that. Can’t have them thinking I’ve gone soft.”

“It was…” Aziraphale trails off, for a moment, searching clearly for the right word before settling on, “fucking. We _fucked.”_

Crowley looks down at the him-shaped imprint on the grass. “We fucked, angel, we did. Sorry it was so disappointing.” He turns on his heel, ready to walk off. Where? He wasn’t sure. The Bentley, most likely. Only place a demon could get some privacy now a’ days.

“It wasn’t—” Aziraphale reaches, stops him with a hand on his elbow. “It wasn’t disappointing, Crowley, it was—it wasn’t what I wanted for you. I wanted...I _want_ to make love to you. If I’d known you hadn’t been with anyone before I would’ve tried to show you.”

Body rigid, Crowley pauses, his heart hammering away against his permission. “Show me what?” he asks, turning back around. Crowley could feel the heat radiating off him, the heat and the fury and frustration.

“How much I love you.” Aziraphale emphasizes it by stepping forward, grasping Crowley’s hands before he could make his attempt at an escape. It’s all impressed with sincerity, filled with the raw emotion of Aziraphale’s plea. “I want you to feel _loved.”_

Crowley slots a palm over Aziraphale’s cheek, bringing his face up to his. He wants to tell him all the ways he felt the press of Aziraphale’s love, all the ways he feels it still—but it’s all caught in the back of his throat as he leans in and kisses him again.

And that’s fine, Crowley thinks, it says all it needs to.

And if, from now on, the apple tree in his garden only grows peaches? Well Crowley would argue there’s worse things in life.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](https://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/hipsteroric)


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